


Sympathy for the Lamb

by hattukissa



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Cannibalism, Hannibal is Hannibal, M/M, Rough Sex, Underage Will, Unorthodox Therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-14
Updated: 2017-08-14
Packaged: 2018-12-15 09:09:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11802939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hattukissa/pseuds/hattukissa
Summary: Will gets sent to therapy after a particularly nasty fight with a classmate - strangely, his extremely attractive psychiatrist seems rather keen on only encouraging Will's violent urges.





	Sympathy for the Lamb

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so let's say Hannibal Lecter got to Will like... A lot sooner.
> 
> There is art too, at the end of the fic, so scroll down if you're only interested in seeing it :) Feedback is always much cherished and appreciated <3

If you ask Will, Preston Spencer really had it coming. It wasn't Will's fault, not really, for anyone in his right mind would have flipped if put in the situation Will had been in on last Wednesday in the hallway after class and Will, for the lack of a better word, hadn't been in _his right mind_ for quite some time now. It had all started when, for the third time this year, Will had been transferred to a new school due to his father's inability to hold a steady job and the need to constantly move around. This time, he had sworn, they would settle down for a while, for the project Will's dad was supposed to work at would last at least for an entire year and the principal at Will's new school happened to be an old friend of his which was beneficial because he would gladly accept Will in his school despite his past of trouble making in previous establishments. It wasn't like Will started it on purpose, it just seemed to gravitate towards him even without trying, pulling him in like fingers to a flickering flame.

Principal Jack Crawford was a large, stern looking black man that had seemed slightly intimidating upon first meeting. Will had been dressed in his jeans, a flannel shirt with too long sleeves, so worn there were holes for him to put his thumbs through the fabric while he'd waited in the principal's lounge on his first day of school, fidgeting nervously, heartbeat in his ears. It was always like this on first days and Will'd had a lot of those for someone his age. Always the new kid. The door had opened and Will had stood up to enter the man's office, shoulders tense under the man's observant gaze. He'd smiled at Will, telling him welcome, and gestured at a chair placed in front of his desk, clearly put there for disobedient students to sit on while they get yelled at. Principal Crawford had taken a seat from his plush leather chair and smiled at Will over his desk, over a file with Will's name written on the cover in front of him, seemingly harmless but somehow oppressive, all of Will's secrets documented on paper.

"I understand you've had some difficult times at your previous school, Mr. Graham," the principal had told him with a smooth, understanding voice, "You must understand none of that will be tolerated here. This school takes pride upon being one of the best, here, the students and the staff get along splendidly. There's no bullying here."

Will had nearly scoffed but did nothing, managing to keep his face neutral as he looked up at Principal Crawford from under his dark eyelashes. Most of last night, Will had spent staring up at the ceiling of his new room, impersonal, decorated with furniture that came with the house, dreading the following day, sweating, shaking under the covers of his unfamiliar bed. He'd heard this talk many times before. He hated looking people in the eye and this man, Jack, wouldn't stop staring.

"I hope you'll find your place here, Will," Principal Crawford had said before opening the file, "Your previous homeroom teacher wrote that you have had violent periods, some difficulties concentrating in class and even, correct me if I'm wrong, sometimes suffer from delusions. Is this true?"

"No!" Will's eyes widened as he shook his head, alarmed, "Well, maybe. A part of it is true. But I'm not doing it on purpose, I promise I'll be good this time."

"You don't have to worry, I'm friends with your father," he'd smiled earnestly, closing Will's file and placing it in a drawer in his desk. "We make our own conclusions here, you should consider this a fresh start. A clean slate, alright?"

"Alright," Will had nodded in agreement, turning his eyes away and fidgeting with his sleeve again, already knowing it would never work. The things that followed him wouldn't get left behind no matter how many times he transferred, no matter how far he moved - as long as he didn't get separated from his own head he wouldn't be left alone and this was the truth.

 

Preston Spencer is an arrogant asshole. Like a lot of kids just like him had before, he'd picked up on Will's weaknesses from the first day of school, like a bloodhound would sniff at the traces that led to his prey, and started the torment before first and second period. _Won't look anyone in the eye,_ Will heard people whisper, _he's autistic, I hear he's crazy._ The murmurs would follow him in the corridors, in the bathroom, echoed in his ears at lunch, the sound distorted and turning into loud hoof-beats clicking on the floorboards. Will had spent the entire break before his last class of the day sitting in a bathroom stall, pressing the palms of his hands to his eyes, trying to force himself to calm down. It wasn't like he couldn't understand where everyone's coming from - if he were normal, Will would have done the same too - anything to shift the spotlight away from him, anything to blend in - but he was not, and that day of all days, he'd been most painfully aware of the fact.

 

It takes a little over a week for him to snap. Preston Spencer, with Trevor Lane, Corey White and Nathan Adams in his wake stop Will on his way out of the back door and corner him before he can exit the hallway. Will isn't afraid of him, he's got way worse things than a couple of half-wit bullies to deal with, and so he stands proud, eyes averted and focused somewhere behind Corey's shoulder, not really seeing anything. A jab to his shoulder, a snicker of laughter, the bustling of feet around him - Will sighs, shifting his gaze to his feet instead and hopes the situation will pass quickly so he can go home and scream into his pillows.

"Why are you such a freak, Graham?" Spencer demands, his voice loud enough for anyone in the hallway to hear. "Did you get molested as a kid or something, or are you just retarded?"

Will exhales deeply, closing his eyes and opening them again, completely unimpressed. He's way too smart for any of this, for small minded high school bullies or pointless disputes over territory. He knows his place - he's happy to stay where he is and he isn't a threat to anyone, it doesn't make sense for Preston to target him, there's nothing to gain there but still, for some reason he does.

"I think you bore him," says Adams, a smirk in his voice and Preston Spencer's chest swells with anger as he steps closer into Will's personal space.

"I can't tell if you're a fag or if you're just weird," he goes on and at this Will rolls his eyes, "Acting all tough and shit, I bet you wouldn't be making that face if I'd follow you home and threaten to bash in your skull with a baseball bat."

"You're welcome to try," Will opens his mouth and speaks with a bored voice. "It would be an improvement."

This seems to throw Spencer off and for a short, suspenseful moment Will waits for a retort that doesn't come. Almost disappointed, Will turns his eyes to finally meet Preston Spencer's livid eyes, his face red from anger, mouth twisted down to form a scowl. He hadn't been expecting Will to do anything other than stutter a nervous reply or start crying - in a way it's like throwing water over heated rocks, steam sizzling - and unable to resist the pull, he bites back.

"No wonder your mom hates you. Nearly as dumb as you look, would be embarrassing to have such a son. Didn't you get enough love as a kid for you to turn out that way?" Will says quietly, only now aware of the grip Spencer's got of his forearm and tries to twist himself free.

"You sure you want to go there? Your mom's dead, isn't she? Probably killed herself because of you - couldn't stand the look of you, could she, Graham?"

Will's had enough. He isn't sure how the fight starts, he's not even sure which one of them starts it but he remembers seeing his fist collide with Preston's face, knock out a few of his teeth, blood splattering on the ground like raindrops to the pavement, feels a punch to his stomach that has him doubling over, his head getting pulled up by the hair, another blow, to his face this time. He remembers getting up to his feet and lurching himself at Preston, all nails and fists and teeth, biting into Preston's hand when he tries to shove Will's face away, teeth sinking into flesh. Getting rammed against the glass doors, the back of his head banging against it, shouts and screams, people pulling them apart and then sinking down to the floor on his knees. Panting. There's blood on his face, on his hands and all over the floor and a few feet from him, Preston holding his broken nose with a horrified expression, his other hand bleeding as he holds it to his chest. Will's head is throbbing, his face numb and his lungs incapable of properly breathing in. There's black smoke in the corners of his eyes, hoof-beats that echo in his ears as he hides his face into his forearm, much more afraid than he had been only moments before. Not now, not now. Less than two weeks - this must be a record.

 

His second visit to Principal Jack Crawford's office is completely different from the last. This time, he doesn't offer Will even a hint of a smile - only grave eyes and a severe scowl - as Will slumps down to the chair in front of his desk, looking solemn and anxious. His dad's going to be so pissed at him, that is, if he'll ever even speak to Will again for once again fucking up everything, and he's so scared he's going to get thrown out and forced to live on the streets that he considers just jumping out of the window to his demise. The principal's office is on the second floor which is a bit inconvenient, as Will would probably only break his arm and a rib and be compelled to deal with his shit after only a brief visit to the nearest hospital.

"Explain to me, Mr. Graham, what was going through your mind when you attacked Mr. Spencer," Jack says with a constrained voice, standing up and pacing behind his desk before slamming his fists down to the table when Will doesn't answer. "Never before have I seen such preposterous behavior from a student, never in my career - you bit him and broke his nose for God's sake - I think you owe me an explanation before I pick up the phone and call your dad. Or better yet, the police."

"He insulted my mother," Will mumbles, throat feeling constricted and raw - he doesn't remember crying but it feels like he has, "I never knew my mother, she left us, Principal Crawford, I'm sure my dad's told you about it."

"I know and it's unfortunate, but it's not an excuse for your actions. Preston Spencer is very shaken and severely injured, and is likely to press charges. You assaulted another student out of the blue, that is a severe accusation."

Swallowing back the distressed wail building up in his throat, Will looks up to meet the man's eyes.

"Just don't expel me," he begs, "I'll do anything."

For a while, Principal Crawford doesn't say a thing. He stares right back at Will with concerned eyes, sighs, stares some more and then opens his mouth to speak.

"I think there is something wrong with you, Will, mentally - not physically," he speaks more softly now, and hurriedly continues as he sees the hurt expression on Will's face, "Now, don't get upset, I'm sure it's nothing we can't fix. I know someone, a doctor, someone who can help you deal with all this. I know you're not a bad kid, you're just... Confused. Confusion can make us do things we don't really want to do, act violent even."

Will looks back at him, trembling, and waits for Jack to continue. The black in the corners of his eyes swirls around the room in currents, wraps around his ankles trying to pull him in but he won't go. With one more severe glance at Will, Principal Crawford picks up his cellphone from his left pocket and presses a name on his contact list before bringing the phone up to his ear. Will watches as Jack smiles when someone picks up.

"Dr. Lecter," he speaks with fondness, "I know - yes, it's been a long while, sorry I couldn't make it to your last dinner party, Alana told me it was splendid, yes, listen... I'm actually calling, well..." Jack's eyes find their way back to Will. "There's a student I'd like you to meet. His name is Will Graham."

 

Will's still sporting a black eye when he sits down on the corner of the sofa in Dr. Hannibal Lecter's waiting room. His practice appears to be in his own house, an office and a waiting room decorated with lavish, luxurious furniture, high ceiling, wood floors. There's no secretary or anyone there to greet him and so, Will is extremely unsure of what he's supposed to do. He's seen psychiatrists before, talked to a few even, but never before actually been to an office like this, of someone so obviously successful and wealthy. His dirty shoes seem like a punishable violation against the Arabian rug underneath his feet. The entryway to the building is probably larger than the small, unkempt house he and his father currently reside in. It's seven thirty PM when a large door to his left opens and a man holds it open for him, tall, probably in his mid forties, and offers Will a good-natured, barely there smile.

"Mr. Graham, right on time," he gestures Will to enter the room and steps aside to let him pass. The odour of his cologne is musky but strangely pleasing, a welcome distraction in Will's nervous state of mind. It takes a while for him to notice that the man is ridiculously handsome even though he's old enough to be Will's father, with wide shoulders, good posture and dressed in an impeccable suit that only adds to his allure. Dr. Lecter takes a seat from one of the leather chairs placed opposite each other and nods at Will to do the same - he's still dumbly standing there, caught up in feeling insecure - and he obeys, slowly sitting down to face Hannibal Lecter. The light from the nearby fireplace gleams in his golden eyes, almost obscured by the shadows that dance across his face. His face is practically hypnotic. Will imagines this man must have a lot of lonely female patients who daydream about one day receiving a kiss from this handsome doctor.

"Tell me, Will," he opens his mouth to speak, protruding upper lip moving smoothly with the weight of the words, "What did you do that was so severe Jack felt the need to make an appointment for you to meet me?"

Dr. Lecter looks like he doesn't really care if Will set the entire school on fire on purpose - he seems almost amused, and for that reason, Will's caught so off guard he replies immediately.

"I got into a fight with another student. I broke his nose and I bit him," Will's voice sounds automatic, like he's practised saying it when in fact he hasn't. He hadn't been planning to say anything at all. Dr. Lecter has an accent Will doesn't quite know where to place, not Russian, maybe something Scandinavian?

"Hmm," Hannibal hums uninterestedly, crossing his large hands over his lap and continues to look at Will. Only now, does Will realize he's spent an uncomfortable amount of time looking right into Dr. Lecter's eyes and he should probably stop it. His gaze shifts aside, focuses on the stag statue on a small side table and his stomach lurches unpleasantly.

"Not fond of eye contact, are you?"

"Eyes are distracting," Will mutters, intent on now fumbling with the loose string on the knee of his jeans. "You see too much, you don't see enough. I try to avoid it whenever I can."

"You're a smart boy," Hannibal says, "I won't pretend you're a child when you're clearly not. I will speak to you like an equal. Where on the spectrum do you fall?"

Will looks up at him again, surprised yet again, mouth falling open before he manages to close it.

"I guess, more on the line of Asperger's than a psychopath, which is what Principal Crawford most definitely thinks I am," Will voices his thoughts out loud, "I think differently from most people. I can... Well... I have a remarkably vivid imagination, is what my dad says."

"Empathy is a great gift, Will. So is imagination," Hannibal barely nods, like he's already familiar with the way Will's mind works. "Tell me about this boy you attacked."

"His name's Preston Spencer," Will starts speaking before he can stop himself - maybe it's because he just needs to get it out of his system, "He's been running his mouth about me ever since I stepped foot in that school. He's one of those types, has it all kinda guy, always the center of attention and he singles out the weak-"

"But you don't consider yourself to be weak."

"No, no I don't," Will agrees, "He just chose me because I'm different. Wanted some outlet to dump all the distress he feels in, you know, a typical bully."

"Had it coming, didn't he?" Hannibal is almost smiling again - his expressions so minimal, a mere quirk of the side of his lip - Will isn't sure whether he's imagining it or not. Surely there's nothing silly about Will assaulting another student.

"He did - I heard what he did to Abigail Hobbs last year, this girl in my class," Will explains excitedly, unable to turn away from Hannibal's heavy gaze, "Got her in the back of the car and told everyone she'd demanded he'd fuck her when they hadn't done nothing, nearly ruined her life and reputation too. The rumors were insane."

"Maybe you could find a friend in this girl, Abigail."

"Yeah, maybe."

"How did it make you feel when you broke Preston Spencer's nose?"

Will has to think for a moment before he can answer. The reply feels heavy on his tongue, almost burning the back of his throat - he couldn't possibly say it - but this man, doctor, doesn't seem like the judgemental type.

"I felt powerful," he whispers, voice barely audible over the crackling of the fire in the hearth, "I almost wanted to kill him. I- I know, you're not supposed to think like that, but I wanted him to be gone and to... Just- just disappear. No-one in the school does anything, he's going around making everyone's lives more difficult than they need to be and... I just... I wanted to end it."

Hannibal is now quiet as he tilts his head a little as if he's considering the right answer to this statement.

"A part of me would suggest that killing him would have been more therapeutic," he speaks, tone even like he's talking about the weather, "But I'm glad you didn't. There are other ways to hurt someone than the physical."

Will can only stare. This man is extremely unusual, nothing like anyone Will has ever met before and it thrills him, how nothing seems to shock Hannibal Lecter, like everything Will's said is like any other thing that would come out of the mouth of someone his age.

"I see things," Will blurts out in the last attempt to shock him, curious whether Hannibal is even going to bat an eyelash, "I see things wherever I go and they keep me up at night, that is, whenever I'm not having nightmares about it."

"What do you see, Will?"

No reaction, nothing at all. He must have had patients who suffer from delusions before him. Maybe even some who have it way worse than he has.

"A black stag. Raven. It's always there - sometimes it stares at me from a distance, sometimes I can almost touch him. Sometimes it's just black smoke. And then, sometimes it's just hoof-beats on the ground, I hear."

"A raven stag." Hannibal smacks his lips like he's chewing the word. "Tell me, Will, is there a way an actual deer would follow you around and make it's way into your home to antagonize you?"

"Of course not."

"Then you must know these are only delusions," Hannibal says softly, "They can not hurt you, Will."

"Yes, I know that."

"Then why are you so afraid?"

"I don't know," Will replies, swallowing thickly, and turns away from the man's observant eyes, cheeks heating up under his gaze.

 

"How did it go?" Will's father asks him as soon as he steps in through the front door, shaking snow out of his curls and the shoulders of his coat before he hangs it up to dry. It took nearly twice the amount of time for him to get home than it usually did for he was so deep in thought on the bus ride home that the driver had passed his stop fifteen minutes ago when Will had realized they were nearly at the end of the line, pressed the stop button and got out to walk the rest of the way. The TV's on, blasting news about the newest murder in the city of Baltimore - a girl, around Will's age, found with her kidneys missing and displayed in a park fountain, bowels hanging out and the water all colored red from blood. Will doesn't think anything about it. This killer's been around for a while, why the cops can't see it is beyond him.

"Took you a long time to get home," his dad continues, "Shouldn't take the long route with this shit-" he points at the television with the remote, "-going around."

"I'm going to my room," Will tells him, only wanting to get to bed, hide himself under the covers and finish thinking about Dr. Hannibal Lecter. The man has given him a lot to think about.

"You should be grateful, you know. Jack's doing us a favor for getting you the help you need, I couldn't ever afford it. Has a soft spot for you, I think, he hasn't got any kids."

"Umh," Will grunts, barely listening, and stomps up the stairs to his own room and locks the door after himself. He throws himself down over his bed covers, nuzzles his face against the pillows and then rolls over to his back to look at the roof above him. The streetlight outside shines right into his room through the light blue curtains, casting Will's desk and the cork board he's pinned to the wall above it into bright light. The headline of the article Will's cut out from the paper and attached to it seems to be highlighted, the letters arranged to form the sentence; The Chesapeake Ripper Strikes Again, staring down at him like an unfinished school project. Will gets up to close the curtains, takes off his jeans and slides back into bed.

 

His next appointment with Dr. Lecter is after two days. For some reason, Will's nearly bursting with excitement to get to see him again, he doesn't know why, but he's repeated every bit of the conversation they had the last time over in his head, gone through every single detail like a maniac, wanting to secure everything in his mind where he can cling to it later and now wants new material to obsess over. He arrives early, just to be there on time as it seemed to please the doctor the last time and Will sits on the same sofa he did before - only this time antsy for a different reason. Hannibal Lecter is just as attractive when he opens the door to let Will in that night, dressed in a dark blue suit with, strangely, a red patterned tie you wouldn't normally combine with a suit like that tied around his neck. Will steps into the room and immediately goes to sit down on one of the leather chairs as Hannibal follows him, his steps quiet on the antique floorboards.

"How are you this evening?" Hannibal asks him as he takes a seat and pours a glass of water for both Will and himself, which Will accepts eagerly and clutches with both hands.

"I'm alright," Will says, grinning a little, "I think Preston's afraid of me though, it's quite amusing."

Hannibal quirks an eyebrow at that, taking a sip of water before placing the glass on the side table.

"Do you want him to leave you alone?"

"I don't really care," Will continues to grin, "I'm enjoying myself a little. I talked to Abigail at lunch, I think he thinks we're planning something."

"Good. You should enjoy your high school days however you choose, you won't get to experience them again," Hannibal says calmly. There's no fire in the fireplace tonight and the room seems colder but none the less comfortable.

"I think you were right. I think we could become friends."

"We're all gregarious animals, we long to bond with other members of our species, nothing unusual about that."

"It's just... I've never had that many friends before."

"I'm your friend, Will."

"You're my psychiatrist, I can hardly call you my friend," Will purses his lips and stares at Hannibal's mellow expression, his eyes, gold even without the flicker of a fire.

"Do you tell other people of the things you've experienced, like you've told me?"

"No, of course not, they would think I'm crazy."

"Isn't friendship being able to connect with someone, the possibility to share everything with another person without the fear of getting judged or scrutinized over our actions really the true meaning behind the whole concept?"

"Well... Yes."

"Then I am your friend, Will, and you can tell me anything." This time, Hannibal actually does smile. His teeth are a bit crooked, shark like, and the wrinkles around his eyes seem more prominent for a moment before his face returns to it's usual carefully constructed composure. Will returns the grin, and lets his eyes suck in the sight of the older man's body when Hannibal takes another sip of his drink, unaware of Will's curious eyes for less than a second.

 

They talk for over an hour. Will's pretty sure the appointment is only supposed to last sixty minutes but he must be Hannibal's last client for the day as he doesn't seem too bothered by the fact that the hands of the watch he wears on his wrist are nearing nine in the evening and Will really should be going unless he wants Jack to be paying overtime for his visit to Dr. Lecter's house. When Hannibal finally does stand up, straightening the front of his shirt and glancing at the time, Will feels like he's overstayed his welcome and gets up as well, not wanting to do anything to displease this man he already likes quite a bit. But Hannibal definitely isn't worried about the time, for he removes his jacket and places it neatly over the back of the leather chair before turning to face Will again.

"Would you like a slice of kidney pie before you go?"

"What?" Will asks dumbly, feeling his ears turn so red he wouldn't be surprised if they detached themselves from his head and fell to the floor by his feet.

"It's late, I'm sure you're hungry," Hannibal swings a hand to the direction of, presumably, his kitchen and steps beside Will to lead him out of the room. The kitchen is all black and polished with high quality appliances, shiny surfaces and a long counter on which something in a clear shape of a pie is hidden by a clean kitchen towel thrown over it. Will takes a sit on one of the bar stools while Hannibal gets on the other side of the counter and folds up the sleeves of his dress shirt before grabbing a spotless knife from the wooden knife block he's got placed by the oven. Will watches him take out two plates before removing the towel and slicing in to the pie - his stomach growls loudly in the silence of the room but Hannibal pretends he doesn't notice as he works on decorating the dish with fresh basil leaves and other things Will doesn't even know the names for.

"I quite enjoy cooking," Hannibal tells him in a conversational tone, "I usually tend to go a bit more... Extravagant, shall I say, with my dishes but I've had a long day and I'm sure you won't mind."

"It looks great," Will tells him earnestly, which is rewarded with another barely there smile from the older man who looks honestly pleased with the compliment. Will thinks about Hannibal cooking for someone, for his wife maybe, and quickly looks down to his hands as Hannibal hands him a plate and is relieved to find no ring there. At least he isn't married - Will knows it's stupid to think like that, he isn't even eighteen yet, but he can't help himself - and then Hannibal's looking at him intently, something dark in his eyes as he waits for Will to take a bite and he does, the food practically melting on his tongue and he smiles again, aware of probably looking smitten. "It's great. Really, very delicious, Dr. Lecter."

"Why thank you, Will."

Taking another bite, Will finds Hannibal to be staring at him and forces himself to look away and focus on the food - it truly is delicious, like top restaurant quality (not that Will has actually visited any) - but in the field of his vision are now Hannibal's muscular forearms, the slightly tanned skin and Will swallows thickly, feeling hot all over. He needs to know.

"Um... Do you live here alone?" Will asks awkwardly, unable to lift his gaze from the plate as he eats for he's sure Hannibal would be able to pick up the scent of his desire like a bloodhound. It seems impossible to hide anything from this man.

"Yes," Hannibal says simply, picks up his own plate to start eating while standing up.

"Oh. Cool," Will mutters weakly, finishes his food and places his fork down on the counter by the empty plate, eyes drifting up to the man's face and then away again. "Do you have a girlfriend?"

"No, I don't."

Hannibal doesn't seem to mind answering the questions which is a relief - Will's heart is nearly in his throat as he continues;

"Do you have a boyfriend, then?"

"No, I don't," Hannibal's lips twitch, he's holding back a smile and Will quickly turns his curious eyes away. Hannibal's gaze feels like being poked with a hot piece of iron that isn't entirely unpleasant.

"Can I have another slice?" he asks just to change the subject as quickly as possible. Will's perfectly aware of the transparency of his own words but doesn't know how else to go about it smoothly.

"I'll pack you one to go," Hannibal leans in closer to tell him, almost playful - Will's half expecting him to actually wink - and then opens one of the cupboards to take out a container.

 

Will wakes up to a strange sensation that night. His dreams have been restless, too filled with anxiety and distress, mind refusing to shut down for the night when he feels it. He knows it's the raven stag without even opening his eyes, it's cooling breath ghosting over his face and refusing to open his eyes, Will turns over to his back and pulls the blanket up to almost cover his face. The feeling isn't going away, like a stare that's burning holes to your skin - what Hannibal had said during their first session pops into his head, _they can't hurt you,_ and with that in mind, Will opens his eyes to the darkness. It's almost morning, the light coming from outside is pale pink but in his room there are dark, swirling black waves that make his head spin. He's expecting to see the horn headed creature standing by his bed but it's not there. Instead, there's the shape of a man with deer antlers, the black of it's skin so deep Will can't make out his features, and he breathes in sharply, not expecting his visions to take on a new form.

"You can't hurt me," Will whispers, shaking his head and then really covering his head with the blanket and sinking in to the warmth of the bed, knowing he'll be able to catch at least a couple more hours of sleep. He's shaking all over, fingernails digging into the palms of his hands as he squeezes his eyes shut, repeating Hannibal's words over and over again in his head. _They can't hurt you, they can't hurt you, they can't hurt you._

 

Will and Abigail go through various plans to damage Preston Spencer's reputation over at lunch the next day. They're mostly harmless, like hiding a dead rat in his shoe, filling his locker with notes written in fake blood or starting malicious rumors about him and even though Will knows they won't actually do it, he enjoys the talks none the less. Abigail's a nice girl who comes from a decent, regular family, and she's kind and understanding, and she really listens to what Will has to say which is probably why he ends up telling her.

"I think I might have a crush on my psychiatrist," Will mumbles, toying with his food with a plastic fork and pushing a cherry tomato around in circles on the plate in front of him.

"Uh, isn't he like fifty?" Abigail's nose wrinkles in disgust.

"Forty-five, tops," Will says like it makes all the difference in the world and then sighs, "As far as I know, at least. I know it's stupid."

"It's gross."

"If you saw him you wouldn't think it was gross."

"He really is that handsome?"

"Like you wouldn't believe," Will sighs, looking around the cafeteria as if he's making a point. "Everyone here is just... You know. Childish. I think I need someone older."

"Will... I'm sorry to have to tell you this but it'll never happen," Abigail grins, "This guy's got his whole life to lose. His career, his reputation - you're sixteen, I'm pretty sure it's illegal and definitely morally unacceptable, especially for a doctor of psychiatry."

"But he seems... I don't know, _fond_ of the unorthodox, like he really understands me, like he wouldn't care that I'm young-"

"Will," Abigail lowers her voice to speak to him sternly, "You've only met him twice. You can't possibly know him and even if you happened to be right, in that case you should run away from him, not towards him. He could be dangerous for all we know."

"Dr. Lecter isn't dangerous," Will lets out a barking laugh, shaking his head and then picking up his fork to stab the cherry tomato still swimming in sauce on his plate.

 

The strange, man-shaped creature with antlers visits him again that night. He sits at the foot of Will's bed, stares at him unmoving, the whites of his eyes the only part Will can make it out in the darkness that swirls around him, trapping him in a cage with the beast. The Wendigo returns the next night, and the next, always equally terrifying, always strangely familiar, like the dark look in his eyes is something Will should be accustomed to, like the monster longs to wrap it's long fingered hands around Will's neck and squeeze it until his breath leaves him, until it's nails sink into flesh. Sometimes Will thinks about letting him, sometimes he doesn't.

Will hasn't slept properly in five days when he makes it's to his next meeting with Dr. Lecter. There are shadows underneath his eyes and he feels close to tears just sitting there in the comfort of Hannibal's presence, the golden brown of his gleaming eyes only focused on Will like he's the single, most valuable thing that matters in the world. No-one's ever looked at him like that before and it makes Will's heart swell in his chest from sheer affection to this man he barely even knows.

"You seem upset, Will," Hannibal starts, reaching out and placing a hand over Will's knee to pat it lightly. "Has something happened?"

"My... My..." he starts, not wanting to say _my visions_ because it makes him sound crazy, "My nightmares have gotten worse. It's not just the stag anymore."

"Tell me about these nightmares you see."

"It's a Wendigo," he breathes out, scared like the creature is sitting there in the room with him, "I stayed up late last night watching the special on the Chesapeake Ripper on TV, you know, that serial killer. I fell asleep on the couch and when I woke up I couldn't move, he was there, I swear he was, right there in the doorway watching me sleep. I was so afraid I couldn't get up and go to my room."

"This Wendigo," Hannibal repeats, like he's tasting the word, "Does he seem ominous or is he merely an observer?"

"He hasn't touched me, no," Will shakes his head and then pushes his curly hair out of his field of vision to the side and rubs his eyes, "But I think he wants to. He seems familiar, like he's someone close to me."

"This might sound disconcerting, but have you considered the option that the Wendigo might be a manifestation of how you see yourself, Will, a mere reflection of your wounded psyche and how you feel there's a certain darkness inside you," as Hannibal speaks his voice remains even, "It's possible you cannot accept parts of yourself which has caused your self-image to become distorted. A good Will and a bad Will, as one would say."

Will stares right back at him, a cold sensation in the pit of his stomach. "It- It is possible, yes."

"Perhaps if you let go and allowed yourself to become intimate with your instincts, you would find it easier to live with yourself."

"Are you suggesting I should just go and beat the shit out of Preston Spencer just because I feel like it?"

"I haven't suggested that precisely," Hannibal tells him with a mellow expression on his handsome features. Tapping his fingertips to the armrest, Hannibal seems to consider something for a moment. "Would you like me to prescribe something to you that would help you sleep?"

"Yes," Will says reluctantly, not wanting to seem weak and then deciding it doesn't matter - he can trust this man, he's the only one Will can share every single thought that pops into his head with, there should be no secrets or shame between them, not if Will really wants to get better.

 

That evening Will sits by his desk and looks at the scrap book where he's collected articles about the Chesapeake Ripper, cut out from newspapers, some printed out and glued to the pages of his book, pictures of the bodies, some more graphic than others. He hasn't allowed himself to think about this for a while now, not with the way he's been feeling lately, but the medicine Dr. Lecter has prescribed him sits in a brown paper bag on his night stand and Will's optimistic it will help him sleep. As he turns the pages, eyes scanning the printed words of the murders for the umpteenth time, they somehow feel more familiar. Running his fingers down a picture of a body sitting at a dinner table, both arms nailed to the surface of it with several forks, knifes and other kitchen appliances, Will breathes in and tries to picture himself as the killer. Sometimes he allows himself to think about it; he's going to be a cop when he grows up, so he can catch these guys - this man in particular - he's going to get better, to get accepted in the police academy and use his imagination to his advantage. Will knows he's very good at this. He can empathize with the killers.

The Ripper feels closer tonight, so close Will can almost see his face - he's tall, handsome even, strong enough to move around the dead weight of a man and position them as he pleases. He pictures strong hands wrapped around another body - Will swallows, the familiar face of Dr. Lecter swimming up to the surface of his mind and he parts his lips to let out a sigh. Will opens his eyes and closes the book, now unable to stop thinking about anything other than those hands taking a hold of his hips and twisting him around, pushing him up against the nearest surface. Those hands, sliding down his body in a rough caress. Will reaches over to the night stand, grabs the small bottle of pills and chugs two down his throat before stumbling over to the toilet to brush his teeth and splash his face with cold water, as freezing as the tap water can possibly get.

 

The school day has been pleasantly dull. With a good night's sleep in his system, Will is surprisingly full of energy - there were no nightmares, nothing but the sweet unconsciousness of his quieted mind for a whole nine hours - and he feels ready to take on the world. He's even thinking about asking his dad whether they could go fishing, they haven't done that in a while, not since they moved to Baltimore and Will has always enjoyed the outdoors and the blissful relaxation that is the streaming water and the calming voice of his father as he teaches Will about different lures and what sort of fish they can help him catch. He's stuffing his locker with books when he's yanked and turned around by the shoulder and is slammed against the opposite wall with force, Preston's angry, reddened face in front of him, swinging a piece of paper around before his eyes. Adams and Lane are with him, like brainless goons that mindlessly follow around their leader and Will sighs, not wanting to deal with this right now.

"You put this in my locker, didn't you?" he shouts, slapping Will's cheek and showing him the paper again. "Didn't you, freak?"

_I know where you live_ , the paper reads, and Will suddenly feels a fondness towards Abigail he hadn't expected to experience. It's quite funny, and Will can't help it, he's grinning, which only seems to urge Preston Spencer on for he slams Will against the wall again, demanding answers. Seems silly that something so childish could so utterly bother Preston.

"I didn't put that in your locker, Preston," Will tells him uninterestedly, enjoying the discomfort the other boy is in way more than he should - he's got the upper hand here, "If I were you I wouldn't go around pissing so many people off like you do, it's bound to backfire eventually."

"If I were you I would stop talking unless you want to get your teeth knocked out!"

"I'll bite off your face the next time you try anything," Will's voice lowers an octave, "A broken nose isn't enough for you?"

"You won't be biting anything with that mouth of yours, get him, Lane, you hold him down-"

A scuffle follows. Will writhes against the hands that grab him, adrenaline pumping in his veins so loudly he can hear his heartbeat in his ears - and with a sinking feeling he realizes there's no-one around, the bell has already rung and the hallways are empty, he's all on his own and Will fights back harder. Someone hits him, he feels his lip split and smells the coppery scent of blood before he can taste it, whimpers when someone hits him again, then manages to get one of his hands free and punch whoever's closest to him, fist colliding with teeth. They let go of him, seeing as he's already bleeding, and Will pushes through them, slippery and agile like a greased pig and starts running towards the front doors before they realize he's gotten away again. _A school with no bullying,_ Will thinks bitterly as the cold air outside knocks the wind out of him as he continues to run, backpack heavy on his shoulders, coat unbuttoned. Principal Jack Crawford really has no clue, he's as blind as the entire police force of Baltimore that hasn't managed to catch a serial killer that's been around for more than a decade.

His feet take him to Hannibal Lecter's house. The brick building feels like a safe haven in the freezing wind that blows Will's hair around as he stumbles up the steps two at a time. It's not even four PM, he knows Hannibal must be busy meeting patients but doesn't care at all as he grabs the door knob, turns it but finds it to be locked. It's been open before, Will hasn't had to ring the doorbell, but then he understands the door is probably unlocked only when he's expecting a patient. Feeling dumb for even being there, Will presses the doorbell and waits, shivering from both the cold and the slowly dissolving adrenaline rush. Hannibal comes to the door dressed in a pair of slacks, a white shirt and an apron wrapped around his midsection.

"Will," he says, mildly surprised as he takes in the sight of the young man standing at his doorstep, "I was in the midst of preparing dinner, come on in."

A sweet, delicious scent fills his nostrils already in the open corridor, clearly coming from the kitchen and Will's mouth waters as he breathes it in before turning to face Hannibal's much taller form to speak to him.

"I hit him," he tells Hannibal like he's expecting to be praised, "I hit... Wait... It might not have been Preston but I hit someone. I think it was Trevor Lane."

"Seems like they managed to land a few blows as well," Hannibal says, lifting a hand and nearly touching Will's cheek, fingertips almost grazing over the newly formed bruise on the side of his lip. His hands are bloody and he withdraws them.

"Come on, we must disinfect your wounds," Hannibal turns around and heads over to the kitchen where there's something that looks like sliced liver on the cutting board, some kind of broth steaming over the ceramic stove. Will takes a seat behind the kitchen counter and eyes the food with interest while Hannibal washes his hands in the sink.

"I'm making grilled liver with sauce Mujdei," he explains, dries his hands in the kitchen towel before exiting the room for a brief moment, only to return with a large leather satchel filled with doctor's supplies.

"I haven't decided on what to serve it with," Hannibal continues as he pauses to stand in front of Will, cocking his head to the side like he's evaluating the extent of the damage to Will's small face. "I was thinking roasted cauliflower or yellow beet perhaps? Potato purée?"

"Potatoes," Will's mouth feels like it's made of lead with Hannibal standing so close to him. The man's cologne is like chloroform, making him mind-numbingly light headed - Will's eyelashes flutter as Hannibal takes a hold of his chin and tilts his head back. His fingers linger on Will's jaw, thumb gliding across Will's bloodied lower lip before he presses a soft, wet cotton swipe to Will's mouth and dabs it gently. It doesn't hurt - Hannibal is very gentle as he wipes away the traces of blood on Will's chin, his other hand wrapped around Will's neck to keep his head in place and Will is sure the man can feel his quickened pulse, a maddening beat against the palm of his hand. Hannibal drops the used cotton to the sink, his fingertips returning to Will's lips and then, slides his fingers right into Will's open mouth. Eyes going impossibly wide, Will stares at Hannibal's down cast eyes, his breath getting caught up in his throat causing a rather embarrassing whimper - but Hannibal doesn't seem to be any more fazed by that than he would probably be had Will just told him he had shot every woman and child on his way here.

He's breathing faster when Hannibal's forefinger presses down on this tongue before curling behind his lower teeth, then between his lower lip, then above, fingertip rubbing against his front teeth and his gums. With a horrifying rush of shame, Will comes to the realization that Hannibal is just checking his teeth for damage, that's it, nothing more, and tries to force himself to come down from his high when Hannibal pulls away with a final press of a thumb to his lower lip. Will is nearly panting, he's never been more turned on in his life, and the doctor is most definitely aware of the fact for his warmth withdraws from the close proximity of Will's body as he turns away to search for something in the depths of the leather satchel. The taste of Hannibal's skin is like sickly sweet sugar on Will's tongue.

"Well..." Hannibal speaks with his back to Will, "Your teeth are intact and the wound doesn't need any stitches. A simple bandaid would suffice."

Will remains just as mortified with himself when Hannibal returns to him with a bandaid. He places it on the side of Will's mouth with utmost care, a simple caress of a couple fingers to the bruise on his cheek, so tender Will's throat is suddenly starting to feel constricted with an overwhelming amount of emotion. His entire face has started to throb.

"Would you like some ice for your cheek?"

"Huh?" Will grunts dumbly, dazed out of his mind. The corners of his vision are suddenly flooding with familiar blackness, he's finding it hard to breathe, gasping for air even, and Hannibal's face is back before him, going in and out of focus. His skin turns black, regular, and then black again, the whites of his eyes gleaming in a hollow skull - the Wendigo's - and Will whimpers in fear in the shadow of the creature, he closes his eyes for a few seconds, reopens them and finds Hannibal's concerned face hovering above his, close enough to kiss him.

"Will," he keeps repeating the name, "Will, you are safe here, just try and remember how to breathe."

Will's throat makes a strange, constrained sound as Hannibal smooths a large hand through his hair.

"You've had an anxiety attack, Will, everything's fine."

"Dr. Lecter," Will croaks.

"You must get some rest now. I'll take you to the bedroom."

"Dr. Lecter," Will says again, reaching out and grasping Hannibal's forearms as the older man helps him to his feet.

 

Will wakes up under unfamiliar bed covers. Slightly flowery, a clean scent that tickles his nostrils mixed with something deeper, a person's skin, of someone's who's slept there the night before. Rubbing his face to the pillows, Will presses his mouth to the fabric and inhales, instantly knowing who it reminds him of. It's gotten dark outside, the minimal display of a clock flashing numbers on the nightstand telling him it's almost nine thirty - he's been asleep for several hours and he's still in Hannibal Lecter's house. Will rolls over to his back, stares at the roof for a while and then starts exploring his surroundings without bothering to move. The thought of Hannibal tucking him into his own bed is no less than electrifying.

The soft chords of classical piano music reach his ears from down stairs and Will listens for a while before spotting a tablet on the other side of the bed. He grabs it without thinking, and as there is no passcode - _dumb old man,_ Will thinks - and flicks through the pages wanting to find something interesting. There aren't many apps - only E-books and newspapers, a navigator, recipe search. It's so dull Will opens the browser to check Hannibal's internet history but finds it to be emptied. The last few pages he's visited are Tattle Crime and some article about Kobe beef - he's slightly disappointed even though in all honestly Will hadn't been expecting to find anything unusual as Hannibal doesn't seem like the type to go online for porn. Will opens Tattle Crime and finds the main headline to be about another murder, allegedly conducted by yet again, The Chesapeake Ripper, and scans through the text, picking out the highlights. A man, late thirties, found in his office with a slashed throat, liver surgically removed. It feels almost lazy for the Ripper and Will smiles, zooming in on the picture of the displayed corpse.

Another sound coming from downstairs - a woman's voice - and Will drops the tablet on the bed without bothering to close the website he visited in secret. Laughter, Hannibal's airy voice and a woman's gentle giggle - and Will's heart shrivels in his chest in jealousy as he gets up from the bed to find his shoes Hannibal has neatly placed by the bed. With a final, longing look to the bed that smells like the doctor, Will pushes the bedroom door open and exits the room to go down the stairs and into the dining room where a rather attractive lady is being served the delicious looking dish Hannibal had been preparing earlier. He's changed into formal clothes - a conservative grey suit matched with a rather flamboyant, purple tie - he's dressed up for this woman - and Will's stomach nearly turns at the mere thought of it. He scowls and stands there like a grumpy teenager who's been grounded for the week.

The woman, not nearly Hannibal's age either but much closer than Will is, has long, wavy brown hair, a simple but delightful face and is dressed in a blue wrap dress that seems appropriate for a woman her age. Hannibal places something on her plate to finish off his artwork that is to be tonight's dinner and turns to face Will with a dilute expression.

"Will, you've awoken," Hannibal speaks with agonizing politeness, "Are you feeling better?"

"No," Will says angrily, eyes going back between Hannibal and his dinner date. "I'm going home."

"This is Dr. Alana Bloom, she was one of my students back in the day," Hannibal introduces as he takes a seat from the head of the table, "We'd both be delighted if you joined us for dinner."

"Nice to meet you, Will," the woman smiles at him, condescending, "Have you had the pleasure of tasting Hannibal's cooking?"

They're on a first name basis. Jealously roars in Will's organs like a rumbling, half broken motor, parts popping off and ricocheting to all directions as he tries to keep himself together. It's stupid, Will knows this - he can't possibly be the only person in Dr. Lecter's life but it sure feels like it when it's just the two of them. That must be the magic of Hannibal's work; tricking people into thinking they're the only thing that matters in the world.

"I have to go home," Will repeats and turns around before Hannibal can get up to walk him to the door. He hurries to the front door and pulls on his jacket, Hannibal's footsteps following close behind but he refuses to look at the man - there's a buzz in his ears, he can't hear it properly but Hannibal's telling him not to forget the appointment he's got scheduled for tomorrow night - and he rushes out to the cold, buttoning his coat on the way down the nearly frozen, slippery steps of the front of the building. Anger burns in his throat as he hurries to the nearest bus stop and makes it in the vehicle just before the doors close.

Had Hannibal intended for him to spent the night? Would he invite someone over for a date, this woman in particular, with Will asleep in the bedroom like a kid that's been told to play in his own room while the adults talk? What would have happened if Will hadn't woke up - would Hannibal have joined him in the bed, would he have slept on the sofa, or did he have a guest room somewhere in his magnificent house?

Will sinks down on the first available seat and presses his forehead against the coolness of the bus' window. He can see himself reflected on the surface as it's mostly dark outside, his dark circles like black paint under his eyes, the curls of his silky brown hair falling over his forehead, his cheeks rosy with either the cold or the inner turmoil currently raging inside Will's head. _Stupid, stupid, stupid,_ he thinks, knocking his head against the glass of the window on purpose.

 

The Wendigo touches him that night. There are times when Will doesn't know if he's asleep or awake, the world dreamlike but believable enough to feel real, his eyes might be open, they might just as well be closed - it doesn't matter for the darkness has wrapped around him completely and there is no escape, no matter the true state of his mind. It crawls over him as he lies in bed - the street light outside illuminating the creature's features that resemble Hannibal Lecter's, the white of his eyes nearly as intimidating as the golden brown of the doctor's. Will's chest is heavy with ragged breaths, moving up and down as nails press into the soft skin of his wrist, his arm, scratch down his side and the monster is all over him, above him, weighing him down like a lover. He can't scream, he doesn't have a mouth to speak with, he doesn't have limbs to push it away, he has nothing, he _is_ nothing in comparison to this creature.

The nails scrape against his throat, force his mouth open as Will's back arches in bed, black smoke swirling around him like a nest filled with snakes, of swarming flies, and they push into him, dive down his throat in currents. Will can't breathe. His body is filled with the pooling darkness, merging with his flesh and his blood and he's one with the monster, the Wendigo, the Ripper, Hannibal Lecter.

Will jolts awake with a gasp from his open mouth, bed soaked from sweat, his boxers sticky with come.

 

He's a wreck in school the next day. Still feeling shaky, Will doesn't eat lunch with Abigail like he usually does but hides himself behind the fence in the backyard and sits there alone, the view of a half empty supermarket parking lot before him, a few shoppers here and there making their way to the shop or a return trip to their cars in the coldness of the afternoon. The voices of Preston and his minions reach Will's ears from the open yard - they're tormenting this kid named Peter who goes to special education class (rumor says he got kicked in the head by a horse) - but Will does nothing, barely listens, not wanting to get involved again. Someone else's just going to have to, this time. Will's dad wasn't pleased to hear he'd gotten in a fight again, livid to be honest, the blue mark on the right side of his cheek and the band-aid Hannibal had so gently placed over the side of his lip there to constantly remind him of the fact. The gazes of his classmates practically screaming silent questions, only waiting for the opportunity to come and corner him right after the bell rings. Will wasn't going to let that happen.

He's mad at Hannibal, too. The dream bothers him, it makes the tips of his fingers and toes feel numb, strange arousal curling in his stomach, and Will tries to understand what it means but it makes his head hurt and he doesn't want to hurt, not anymore. Will considers skipping the session he's got scheduled at Hannibal's at their usual time, half past seven, but it makes it even worse because Will knows he needs this man - needs him to get better, needs him just because Will wants to see him, needs him because maybe Hannibal will touch him again. Check if he's okay, possibly change the band-aid, or slide his fingers into Will's mouth again. Touch Will's hair and smooth it with his hand. The bell rings and Will groans, rubbing his eyes with his open palms.

 

Sitting opposite Hannibal Lecter, in his usual leather chair, Will shivers with the memory of the dream as he shares it with the doctor - save for the parts just too embarrassing to say out loud. Hannibal listens to him with a calm expression, hands joined in his lap and waits for Will to finish before latching on to the details.

"The Wendigo is emerging now, in the form of sexual desire," Hannibal tells him coolly, "It is common for us to repress certain urges, especially for someone your age who's just coming into terms with such awareness and perceptions of how we see our own sexuality and our infatuations."

"Why would I... Combine fear with..." Will struggles to say it, his voice sounding grave, not wanting the words to come out like spoken by a giggling high school student, "With _sexuality._ "

Hannibal's eyes seem warmer as he answers, "Like affection and contempt, both fear and sexual desire are intimately linked with the human brain. There's no simple way to separate the elements."

He's quiet for a moment and then continues, " _Then Amnon hated her exceedingly; so that the hate wherewith he hated her was greater than the love wherewith he had loved her._ "

"Is that Shakespeare?" Will rubs his fingertips on the armrest of the chair, making patterns in the smooth leather.

"It's from the Bible," Hannibal smiles. Another pause, longer than the last as they look at each other in sedate silence.

"I was mad at you last night."

"And why was that?"

"I don't know," Will lies, turning his gaze away and focusing it on his fingers instead, now tracing a slow circle. "It's foolish. I just... I wanted you to only focus on me. I hated that she was there."

"She's a former student and a colleague, nothing more," Hannibal has the courtesy to explain even though he really doesn't have to. "You're a patient, I would never share intimate knowledge of you with anyone but yourself, unless it was with your consent, of course."

"I don't care about that," Will's fingers stop and he looks up to glance at Hannibal again under thick eyelashes, "I don't want you to have anyone else besides me."

Hannibal quirks an eyebrow at this, ever so slightly and then leans closer, elbows to his knees as he speaks intently, fingertips close enough to brush against Will's knees.

"I find you decadently enticing, Will," Hannibal's voice is smooth like satin, yet oddly calm for the words coming out of his mouth, "You're a beguiling, magnetic pull in a world of unappealing mediocrity."

Will's entire body is frozen as Hannibal moves a single forefinger and brushes it against his knee, then withdrawing his hands and leaning back in his chair. There's black smoke swirling around the room, circling around their ankles, brushing against the side of Will's calf but for once he doesn't care. Hannibal's gaze is still fixated on him, heavy with clear intrigue, like he's curious to see how Will's going to react. Arousal pools in his belly and Will tries to force it away but his breathing is getting faster as he attempts to wrap his mind around the words that just came out of Hannibal's mouth - he must be dreaming, he must. _Decadently enticing._

If this is a dream, it doesn't matter what he does. If he allows his instincts to control him, to take over, it won't matter here, not when he's not really even awake and so Will stands up slowly and takes a step to stand before the man sitting opposite him. Hannibal allows Will some room, legs on both sides of his knees and shifts in his chair to sit up straighter, looking up at Will with keen eyes. Hannibal takes his hand and kisses it.

Will's breath gets caught in his throat again as he watches him do it, Hannibal's plush mouth pressing kisses to his knuckles, the side of his forefinger, his open palm. He kisses Will's thumb, then his wrist, then nuzzles his nose against the soft skin there - inhales, like he's trying to memorize Will's scent. _This isn't a dream,_ Will thinks, as he lifts a hesitant hand to run it through Hannibal's light, ashy hair and press his fingernails into his scalp.

"Kiss me," Will whispers in a trembling voice, fingers tracing the shell of Hannibal's ear as the man turns his gaze up to meet his.

"That would be highly inappropriate," Hannibal's voice doesn't bear the slightest sign of remorse, no guilt, nothing - it's like he's talking about the weather - and Will knows he doesn't really mean it for Hannibal must not be familiar with the concept of inappropriate.

"I don't care, I won't tell anyone," Will continues sounding pathetic - a failed attempt to gather his remaining courage into his voice, "Just once, please."

But Hannibal takes a firm grip of Will's forearms, stands up and holds him within a distance. It suddenly feels like there's miles between their bodies, the heat evaporating with every inch they move further away from each other like it was never there to begin with.

"I think it's time for you to return home, Will," Hannibal's words are stern but his voice holds playfulness and Will has never been more confused than when Hannibal leads him to the door and watches him put on his coat. Will doesn't know where to rest his eyes, his insecurities coming rushing back to him, shame, anger even - and Hannibal follows him down the corridor to let Will out but pauses before opening the front door.

Their eyes meet briefly before Hannibal leans in - for a moment Will thinks their mouths are going to collide - his nose brushing Will's cheek just briefly, lips ghost over his neck, barely there, lingering for a long moment until finally, pressing his open mouth to the skin of Will's neck. Hands flying up to grip Hannibal's forearms, Will lets out a quiet gasp when Hannibal sucks on a piece of skin, just slightly, before letting it go to merely inhale deeply. He's smelling Will again and it's weird, but it's the best, most exhilarating thing Will's ever felt and he trembles in Hannibal's hold, lightheaded with arousal. It's the most grown up he's ever felt and as Hannibal pulls back to look into his eyes again, Will doesn't ask for more - he's already gotten plenty. He smiles at the older man, the side of his lip twitching and Hannibal looks at him agreeably, gaze warm.

"Good night, Dr. Lecter," Will says.

"Good night, Will."

 

The Wendigo lays next to him that night, the whites of his eyes gleaming in the dark as Will rests his cheek against his pillow, calmly meeting the monster's empty gaze. Sighing, Will turns over to his other side and finds himself facing the creature again - it's hollow cheekbones, skin black as old motor oil, the antlers that cast long shadows across the bed and paint the walls. The resemblance it now bears to Hannibal Lecter is obvious - how Will couldn't see it before is beyond him - and maybe, the doctor has been right in telling him what it represents. Sexual desire, violent urges, the things Will tries so hard to push down and hide, drown like a litter of kittens that were never meant to be born in the first place. When he falls asleep his dreams are calm, uneventful, guarded by the ominous presence of the Wendigo beside him.

 

Will doesn't tell Abigail about what happened last night at Dr. Lecter's house. The secret feels like a warm, glowing orb inside his chest - a nice variation from the usual dark current that fills him up - and Will wants to keep it only to himself, both for the sake of Hannibal Lecter's reputation as well as for selfish reasons. It no longer feels like a dream - now Will has something concrete to focus on, the man's lips kissing the palm of his hand, knuckles still bruised from the fight before, the soft skin of his neck, so sensitive it causes chills to run down Will's spine in thick rivulets. Instead, they discuss the Ripper, who's a constant topic of conversation in the city now already accustomed to his - kills mostly in threes - steady flow of emerging victims.

"The police has nothing on him," Will tells Abigail in a hushed voice over their lunch trays, "He's got no traceable motive, nothing to connect him to his victims - he's smart that way, probably smarter than anyone in this entire city."

"He must be, he's been fooling the police for years," Abigail agrees, tilting her head to the side and giving Will a calculating stare, "You're smart too - can you imagine, how great it would be to catch this man? I mean, he's a monster."

"He's not a monster," Will furrows his eyebrows in displeasure, "He's an _artist._ "

"What do you mean?"

"I'm not saying he respects his victims, that's not it - they're like pigs to him, less than pigs really, they don't deserve to live," Will explains, "But there's a certain grace to everything he does, it's all conducted beautifully, perfectly, with such ease you would think he's been practicing all his life to perfect his art."

"You sound like you're in love with him," Abigail grins at him and Will returns the smirk, shaking his head of brown curls.

"I just understand him, that's all."

"You're going to be a great cop one day, Will," Abigail smiles, "If someone's going to catch him, it's going to be you."

 

The five days before Will's next appointment with Dr. Lecter feel more like five years. He's so excited he's barely able to contain himself as he paces around the waiting room, anticipating the doctor to open the door and let Will inside his study. Every day after school, he's considered just appearing on Hannibal's doorstep like he did the day of the fight but thought better of it after the events of their last meeting. Will's age must be the only factor stopping Hannibal from what's clearly going on between them and for that reason, he needs to be as grown up and as calm as he can possibly get. It probably won't make any difference but at least he won't ruin the little chance he's actual got with the man. He's going to take whatever he can get.

Hannibal opens the door dressed in a dark, pinstriped suit. His tie is forest green, paisley patterned, and his hair is combed back out of his handsome face as it usually is. Will's dressed up for the occasion, wearing one of his few, barely worn dress shirts, sleeves rolled up in an imitation of how Hannibal wears them whenever he removes his jacket. Hannibal seems to notice this for he eyes Will's appearance with a slight smirk, a mere twitch of the side of his mouth and lets Will inside his office, allowing Will less room than usual to pass by him. He's restless, high-strung with nervousness - he doesn't sit down in his usual leather chair but moves around the room as Hannibal closes the door and stands there, waiting for Will to settle for something.

"I still haven't gotten any trouble over the fight the other day," Will tells him - the blue marks on his face now mostly faded and no longer prominent, "I don't think Preston and his gang told anyone."

"That's good news, Will," Hannibal's eyes follow his trotting, "Surely you wouldn't want to attract any more predicaments with your actions."

"What happened to becoming intimate with my instincts?"

"Nothing - I merely wouldn't want any harm to come your way."

Will scoffs, taking a seat from the leather recliner where Will imagines Hannibal would have some of his patients lying down. Watching as Hannibal takes a seat next to him, Will continues to speak in a provoked tone.

"Would you even care if I got in a fight with him again and beat him to death?"

"No," Hannibal tells him honestly, lifting one thin eyebrow, "I just wouldn't want you to get caught doing it."

"Oh," Will says, feeling heat rush into his cheeks from Hannibal's close proximity. They look into each others eyes, the light from the fireplace dancing in the older man's expectant gaze - a glint of something, perhaps amusement. He's joking - Will realizes, and his face breaks into a grin, his expression mirrored in Hannibal's now openly entertained face. It's so difficult to tell with his man for his sense of humor seems dark and highly intellectual, which naturally makes Will want to understand him even more.

"How are you feeling, Will?" Hannibal's voice sounds gentle as he places a hand over Will's thigh, completely innocent but it still causes Will's heart spurt like a race horse. Suddenly finding it hard to look up to meet the man's eyes, Will focuses on the large palm resting over his leg, the knuckles, the veins on the back of his hand.

"I feel alright," Will answers, surprised by his own honestly and the truth in his words, "I'm... I think I might be getting better."

"Mm," Hannibal hums, inhaling and exhaling, his face so close Will can feel his breath ghost over his shoulder. "Are you wearing cologne?"

"Um... It's my dad's," Will blushes, fidgeting in his seat nervously, "It's got a-"

"Ship on the bottle," Hannibal finishes his sentence, his nose brushing against the fabric of Will's shirt, the grip he's got of Will's thigh momentarily firmer, "It's terrible, I should get you something more suitable. More elegant - something that would better compliment your radiance."

"Sorry," Will croaks, not knowing what else to say and turns his head to the side to face Hannibal, finding him much closer than before as the man's lips brush against his cheek. " _Oh._ "

The warmth of Hannibal's hand leaves his thigh as he cups Will's face with his both palms instead, guiding their foreheads together for a short moment before planting a kiss on Will's brow bone. Eyelashes fluttering, Will takes a hold of Hannibal's slacks and squeezes the fabric in his fist - the lips move across his eyebrow to the corner of his eye, an open mouthed kiss on the fading bruise on his cheek, another to the side of Will's parted lips. The moan surges out of his throat before Will can stop it, quiet, but painfully evident in the silence of the room. But Hannibal doesn't pull back - his mouth moves down to Will's chin, large hands guiding him to tilt his head as the man's mouth closes over his Adam's apple and he sucks, pulling another breathless gasp from Will.

Hannibal's mouth leaves his skin as he returns to gazing into Will's half lidded eyes, thumbs caressing the apple's of his cheeks.

" _Stars hide your fires; Let not light see my black and deep desires: The eye wink at the hand: yet let that be. Which the eye fears, when it is done to see,_ " Hannibal recites in a low voice, glancing at Will's open mouth.

"Is that from the Bible, too?" Will asks, completely breathless.

"It's Shakespeare," Hannibal says - and then kisses him.

Will's hands move to clutch the lapels of Hannibal's suit jacket as his lips open for the man's kiss, letting him in, wanting to give his everything and nothing less. He's never been kissed before - not like this - but Hannibal's mouth is a force that guides him, his lips moving across Will's with ease, soft but suffocatingly heavy from longing. It truly feels like stars and fire, like blood gushing from an open wound, and Will returns the kiss, breathing harshly through his nose, sucking on Hannibal's lips with feverish eagerness. Hannibal's thumb caresses the outline of his lower lip, dragging it down as his tongue slides into Will's mouth, calm, where as Will's ablaze with greed - a newly required appetite for something he's never tasted before. His hands find their way under the man's suit jacket, feel the width of his chest under his palms and Will shudders with arousal, pushing closer, hungry kisses impelling the doctor to rival his craze.

Hannibal wraps an arm around his midsection and pulls Will to his lap, the boy's thighs on both sides of Hannibal's waist, the strength in his physique so formidable it would be alarming had he not wanted it so badly. He can feel just how aroused the other man is, Will's sitting right on top of the shape of his erection and as Hannibal's hands move down to brush the curve of his ass, Will laps at the man's mouth, short, staccato breaths leaving his lips. He grinds down and Hannibal moans - Will vaguely realizes it's the first time he's gotten any kind of reaction out of the impeccably composed doctor and does it again, his own hardness pressed against Hannibal's clothed stomach. Tucking Will's shirt out of his pants, Hannibal touches the bare skin of his back with his palm, pressing into the curve of his spine to direct his motions, moving Will up and down, the kiss breaking as they both try to catch their breath.

Their eyes meet - darkness merging with the golden brown of Hannibal's irises where as the blueish green in Will's must seem like a deep, haunted forest - and they kiss again, a hand wrapping around Will's frail throat, squeezing, as their tongues come out to slide against one another. Hannibal squeezes harder and Will lets out a whimper, lightheaded with the sudden lack of air and the other man eases up a bit to give him a moment before clasping it again, Will's fingers flying across his chest to open the buttons of his vest. He's feverish as he loosens Hannibal's tie, the first few buttons of his dress shirt and feels the soft curls of the man's chest hair against his fingertips, lips glued to Hannibal's plush mouth before all of a sudden, getting the wind knocked out him as he finds himself on his back on the recliner with Hannibal's weight pinning him down, face hovering above him.

Yanking Will's hips up to align them with his, Hannibal rocks against him, teeth finding a spot on Will's neck and sink into the flesh. Will's eyes roll to the back of his head, it hurts - it hurts much more than he'd like - but the pressure of their hard cocks pressed together is so good, the clothing between them only adding to the friction, and the climax builds up inside him, a tidal wave of heat... But Hannibal seems to sense it for he stops moving, his mouth still plastered to Will's neck, sucking on the sore spot he's created. Will twitches in pain, fingernails digging into Hannibal's scalp and he lays there, feeble, unable to push him away even if he'd wanted to. His erection has started to ache, throbbing where it's squeezed between their stomachs - he wants to come so badly - but Hannibal's lips leave his throat to give him a single, final kiss that kind of tastes like Will's blood. His lips are red.

"Time to go home," Hannibal murmurs, hands running down Will's sides, the tip of his thumb touching the clothed underside of his cock as they pass his pelvis. Will twitches, mouth parting as Hannibal helps him up - and he reaches for the man, wanting to pull him back to Will's embrace but Hannibal stops his hands with a firm grip of his wrists, smiling softly. "This isn't a rejection - there's simply somewhere else I need to be tonight."

Will nods, taking in the sight of Hannibal's disheveled appearance - his normally perfectly combed hair falling over his eyes, his jacket lost and tossed somewhere on the floor, his vest open, tie who knows where, his shirt half unbuttoned. Swallowing thickly, Will knows he must look even worse.

"Would you like a ride home?" Hannibal asks while buttoning up his shirt, somehow quickly managing to regain his composure while Will is still trying to figure out a way to stand up from the recliner without dragging attention to his raging erection.

"Yeah?" Will croaks, touching his fingertips to his own neck where a bruise is quickly blooming on his pale skin, teeth marks, a throbbing ache.

 

Sitting in the shotgun seat of Hannibal's Bentley, Will finds it difficult not to keep touching the mark on his neck. He keeps his fingers crossed over his lap, consciously holding them there for he doesn't want the doctor to get worried and regret what he's done by attracting attention to the wound. His eyes drift towards the man driving the car, dressed in a warm wool coat, gaze focused on the road ahead allowing Will plenty of opportunities to observe him. City lights flash across his handsome features, the ashy blond of his hair, coloring it with hues of neon as he drives, expression one of mellow tranquility. He's painstakingly gorgeous and Will swallows down the infatuated sigh weighing on his adenoids.

"Dr. Lecter?" Will starts, continuing as Hannibal hums as a sign that he's listening. "Where are you from?"

"Lithuania," he replies simply, not providing anything further information.

"Do you have any family there?"

"I had a sister," Hannibal tells him softly, "But I was orphaned at quite a young age."

"Your sister... She's dead?" Will feels like he has something in common with the doctor and finds some comfort in the fact, "I never knew my mother, she left me and my dad when I was little. She's probably dead by now. I guess it kind of stuck with me."

"She was taken from me, yes," Hannibal says without portraying any emotion, tilting his head to look at the nearest street sign as he drives.

"Take a left here," Will instructs and Hannibal does, stopping the car in front of the apartment building. There's flashing light in the window of the second floor flat where Will lives with his father, the television's probably on like most nights, but Will isn't in a hurry to get out of the car. It's unsettling how little he knows of Dr. Lecter, even though they've spent quiet a lot of time together by now and for some reason, Will feels like he might be this way with everyone he meets - maybe he doesn't let people see him, maybe he has some tragic past he refuses to talk about. Then again, Will's only a patient, why would Hannibal tell him anything at all?

Turning to face the man sitting in the driver's seat, Will finds Hannibal already looking at him with kind eyes. He reaches over to brush Will's cheek with the palm of his hand and then leans in to give him a short kiss. Their lips stick together and Will sighs, eyelashes fluttering as his fingers twitch in his lap, wanting to lift his hands to caress the width of Hannibal's chest. He goes for more, trying to catch the man's lips for one more second, but Hannibal opens the door for him and then withdraws completely, giving Will a clear signal that it's time for him to leave. A thousand questions course through his mind - will he have to wait for next week to meet Hannibal again? What does all of this mean? Where is Hannibal even going so late in the evening? But Will smothers his curiosity with much effort and without saying anything, exits the car and slams the door shut after himself. As the Bentley drives away and disappears behind a corner after the first set of traffic lights, Will adjusts the collar of his jacket to better hide the mark on his neck and heads inside.

 

At school, Will bears the love bite on his neck like a medal. There's nothing pretty about it - a purple blue-mark with clear teeth indentations, visible from the collar of the loose t-shirt Will's wearing that day. He's spent all morning trying to push down the sudden flashes of desire that keep reminding him of what happened last night, of what Hannibal did to him, how it felt to lie there underneath the man, the heat of their combined arousal, the memory of Hannibal's breathy moan against his lips. It's uncomfortable and nearly impossible to focus in class - it doesn't matter that Will tries his best as he only ends up doodling to the pages of his textbook, drawing nonsensical spirals and circles and swirls that wrap around the letters and numbers of the article he's supposed to be studying. Abigail eyes him with interest from her seat next to Will's but the boy pays her no attention.

The bell rings, and Will stuffs his books in his backpack in unison with Abigail, they stand up and walk out together, comfortable even in the silence between them. The bustling of students is a loud, continuous distraction around the two but Abigail can only see Will, nearly bursting with the desire to question him.

"What's that?" she asks in a hushed tone, walking closer to Will to make sure no-one hears, "Did you get in a fight again?"

"A fight?" Will turns to face her, mouth breaking into a gleeful grin, "It's a _hickey._ "

"That's not a hickey, it's a flesh wound," Abigail's eyebrows nearly disappear into her hairline, "Really Will, that must have hurt."

"It did," Will says proudly, feeling immensely powerful and over everyone else, "It still hurts."

"Who did that to you?"

"Lets go outside and I'll tell you," Will continues to smirk as they head out the doors and cross the backyard to the hidden place where Will spent his lunch break yesterday, "But you have to swear on your mother's life not to tell anyone - ever."

They make their way through the hole in the fence and sit down behind the trashcans, leaning their backs against the planks that separate the school from the now busy supermarket parking lot where a bunch of seagulls are fighting over a tossed sandwich. There are white bird droppings on the hood of one of the most expensive looking cars and Will finds it amusing - he's still delirious from last night and Abigail's looking at him expectantly, eager to hear what Will has to tell. The voices of someone making a ruckus in the backyard reach their ears and Will turns around to peer through the hole in the fence - it's no other than Preston again, quite close to the fence, and tormenting Peter like he did the day before. He shoves the other boy in the shoulder - his opponent much smaller than him, skinny and twitchy from fear - and Abigail opens her mouth to say something but Will shakes his head at her in an attempt to shush her. Even Jack can't let a student bullying a disabled kid slip through his fingers, he's got to do something as long as there's proof.

"We've got him now," Will's voice is barely a whisper as he fishes his cellphone from the pocket of his jeans and turns the camera to film the entire interaction, zooming in on Preston Spencer hitting Peter in the face and forcing him to give up his wallet.

It's over within a few minutes and Will and Abigail get to their feet and clamber through the fence, Abigail helping Peter up to his feet and telling him it's going to be alright. Will brushes the dirt off the boy's elbows and together they head towards the principal's office, the cellphone heavy and hot in Will's pocket like a lottery coupon for a million dollars. Preston Spencer won't be a problem any longer - Dr. Lecter had been right, there are other ways to hurt someone than the physical. Not nearly as satisfying as kicking in the guy's teeth but still, the sense of power is dizzying and for the first time in a long while Will feels like he's in total control of himself and his actions.

 

Hannibal Lecter doesn't seem to be surprised in the slightest to find Will in his doorstep, face split in a huge grin, panting from running the entire way there, hair messed up by the wind, cheeks red from the freezing winter air. He storms past Hannibal to enter the apartment and dumps his backpack on the floor, turning to face the much taller man who closes the door after Will, now looking moderately amused by Will's appearance and his sudden arrival. There's an apron wrapped around his waist again - Will has caught him in the midst of preparing dinner like last time - but he's got to tell Hannibal what's happened right this instant or he'll burst open and bleed all over Hannibal's Arabian rug. The man would probably consider that to be rude.

"I got him expelled," Will exclaims, thriving in the smirk Hannibal gives him, "I caught him beating and stealing from this disabled kid and oh man - you should have seen Principal Crawford, he was livid when I showed him the video!"

"My cunning boy," Hannibal smiles warmly, picking up Will's bag from the floor and hanging it up neatly by his coat as Will shrugs it off and hands it to Hannibal.

"You were right about everything," Will continues, still breathless from excitement and Hannibal's praise as he follows the man to his kitchen. "I've never felt more powerful - we did it, me and Abigail, and Crawford apologized to me for not taking action after the fight I was in - what are you cooking?"

"Pork," Hannibal tells him while grabbing a knife and continuing to chop something that seems like a pair of human lungs on the cutting board, one half already sliced neatly.

"That's not pork," Will frowns, wrinkling his eyebrows in distaste, then paying attention to Hannibal's cheerful demeanor. "Why are you in such a good mood?"

"What if I told you it was human?" Hannibal smiles smoothly, slicing into the piece of lung with surgical precision. Will giggles, taking a seat by the counter to watch Hannibal cook.

"Like I would care," he says, returning Hannibal's smile and feeling his cheeks turn red under the man's heavy gaze.

"I'm simply in high spirits because I'm pleased to see you so soon," Hannibal answers Will's earlier question - Will's heart jumps to his throat - and then continues, "I'm making motsunabe - it's a Japanese dish, a stew prepared from beef or pork offal - I tend to use lungs and intestine for I find those parts to really absorb the miso taste that quite wonderfully compliments the meat. Could you pass me the blue container from the fridge?"

Will gets up, eager to help the other man and opens his fridge door to take out what Hannibal's requested. There are several vacuum packed pieces of meat, organs, fresh vegetables and fruits Will doesn't stop to examine closer as he hands the container to the doctor, standing so close to the other man that their elbows touch.

"Come here," Hannibal's voice is a bit rough when he makes room for Will to stand in front of him, wrapping his arms around the shorter male and placing the meat from the container over the chopping board. It's a long piece of pink, gross looking intestine but Will is so thrilled to be so close to the man that he doesn't care when Hannibal places a knife into his hands and shows him how to chop it into thin pieces. Firm hands guiding Will's hesitant fingers, Hannibal's front is glued to his back, his breath ghosting over Will's neck as they work together, their joined hands slightly bloody from handling the meat. It takes a while for Will to come to the understanding that Hannibal is turned on - the firm shape of his erection a rigid pressure on Will's backside - and his hands start to shake, now barely able to hold on to the knife. Hannibal closes his mouth over the juncture of Will's neck and his shoulder, every bit of his essence bearing clear intent, kisses making a path up to his ear where Hannibal inhales deeply, pulling Will closer to his chest. His hips make a firm thrust against Will's ass and he gasps, dropping the knife to grab a hold of Hannibal's forearms instead.

Turning his head to the side, Will attempts to kiss Hannibal's cheek but the man pushes the cutting board aside, the knife clatters and falls into the sink, and Hannibal bends him over the counter - Will's face colliding with the marble surface rather roughly. There are hands all over him, pulling at his t-shirt, circling his hips and sliding over his ass, grabbing it briefly before moving over to open the button and zipper of Will's jeans. Eyes fluttering shut, Will's mouth parts against the cool marble counter top as he moans, one of Hannibal's hands sliding under the fabric of his briefs to his pubic hair, a firm hand closing around the base of his cock. He jerks and shifts in Hannibal's hold, trying to push into his hand but Hannibal is determined in his languid pace as he holds Will down, licking the shell of his ear as his thumb glides over the wet tip of Will's erection. Will's legs are shaking - he clutches at the rim of the counter for something to ground himself on, something to remind him that this is real - and Hannibal withdraws his hand for a moment, only to push it back inside Will's underwear to press his fingers to the crack of his ass.

"I want to eat you, Will," Hannibal lets out a shuddering breath that causes Will's entire body to tremble with violent chills, the pad of Hannibal's forefinger pressing into him, "Your scent is intoxicating."

" _Ooh,_ " Will pants for speaking feels like something he forgot long ago how to do. His hips twitch on their own accord, Hannibal's finger sliding deeper and as the pleasure builds up he croaks, "I'm going to come-"

"Shh," Hannibal hushes him, pulling his hand out of Will's pants to turn him around, their eyes meeting one another as he, as easily as Will were a sack of potatoes, lifts him up into his arms and starts carrying him up the stairs to his bedroom. Threading his fingers into Hannibal's hair, the tips brushing against the tan skin of the back of his neck, Will refuses to look away as Hannibal opens the door by pushing it with his hip and then, dumps Will over to his bed. He crawls over Will's quivering form like the Wendigo of his dreams, placing kiss after kiss to the massive bruise on his neck before his lips find Will's and they kiss, open-mouthed, starving for contact.

Hannibal undresses him with the poise of an experienced man - pulling Will's t-shirt over his head before opening the buttons of his own shirt while busying him with deep kisses - and finally, Will feels like he's allowed to touch as well and he does, sliding his hands up and down Hannibal's bare chest, his strong shoulders, and marvels at the man's physique. Only now does Will realize that they're going to fuck and he feels like the fever that burns within him is about to consume him completely, his vision sways, and he sinks his nails to the back of Hannibal's neck as he removes Will's jeans together with his socks and his shoes and tosses them to the floor. Hannibal saves Will's underwear for last - toying with the rim of his boxers, dipping his fingers underneath the fabric teasingly before yanking them down Will's hips, then leaning back on his knees to really look at the body sprawled across his bed. Their eyes meet, Will's hazy and unfocused, and he watches, chest heaving with the power of his ragged breathing as Hannibal unbuckles his belt, opens the zipper and removes his trousers. The bulge in his dark underwear looks huge and Will swallows thickly, tongue coming out to wet his lips.

Lowering his weight on top of Will, Hannibal kisses him again and Will opens himself up, spreading his legs and wrapping them around the man's waist as their stomachs press together. The loving kiss is a strong contrast to Hannibal gripping his hips and forcing him over to his stomach soon after, shoving his face into the pillows nearly suffocating Will before open mouthed, wet kisses land down the bumps of his spine all the way to the curve of his ass. Hannibal kneads the flesh of Will's buttocks in his large hands and with the first brush of his lips to Will's ass, the younger man cries out into the silky pillows. His face heats up from the sheer knowledge of what's happening, trembling fingers digging into the pillows as Hannibal licks him open, and he pushes back, spine strung like a bow. Without managing to push down a hand in time to catch his release, Will comes all over the bed sheets, gasping for he's never felt so high before. Hannibal has no intention to stop - he ignores Will's climax completely, ignores his struggling and merely holds him down with a firm hand to his tailbone, pressing his thumb inside with his tongue.

It seems to last forever - Hannibal eats him out until Will is fully hard again, his cock squeezed between his stomach and the stained bed covers - and Will hopes it never will, his panting turning into quiet whimpers, his mind blissfully empty, reduced to something primal, to some place where there's only desire, release, and the smell of sex that lingers in the air around them. Hannibal pulls out his thumb, pushes it in again and Will moans, spit trickling down his inner thighs and adding to the mess underneath them. When Hannibal pulls away to slide an arm around him - smooth on Will's sweaty skin - and yanks him up to stand on his knees, Will has no time to worry about the pain, no time to worry about anything at all as Hannibal brushes the tip of his cock down the cleft of his ass, having pushed his underwear down to his thighs. There's unexpected slickness - he must have covered himself with lube without Will noticing - and just like that, without much effort, Hannibal thrusts into him fully. It hurts like nothing Will's ever felt before - after a pathetic wail he goes mute, nearly choking on his own saliva - and Hannibal holds him up with a firm arm around Will's midsection, keeping them both on their knees as he starts to fuck him, hard from the get go.

He must feel like dead weight in Hannibal's hold, head lolling back, mouth open as he regains his voice slowly, whimpers leaving his throat, and he tries to find something to grip, something to squeeze until it ends. Fingernails digging into Hannibal's wrist, Will shakes and shudders in his hold, the familiar pressure of Hannibal's hand closing around his throat, constricting his airways. Hannibal slows down a little, deeper, languid thrusts, the warmth of his mouth breathing next to Will's cheek, exhaling praises that sound like, _my sweet boy, my cunning boy._

"Hannibal," Will wheezes, voice thick with tears, his eyes turning to the back of his skull and _ooh_ , Will gasps through the hurt, he thinks he can feel it - what it would be like if he'd get used to this, used to the thick shaft ramming into him - and he takes one of Hannibal's hands and directs it down between his legs, a constrained noise leaving his lips as the man touches him, wraps his palm around Will's half hard cock. He starts to push back just to please Hannibal, the cock inside him like a hot iron bar pushing against the end of his spine and breaking it into pieces, like an icebreaker dismantling waves, and he doesn't care if he hurts himself - there's nowhere he'd rather be than in the arms that steady him, anchor him to the present and the pain and the pleasure.

Hannibal's arms tighten around him as he groans into Will's curls, the tips of his hair wet with sweat - he hugs Will so close that for a moment that's all he can feel - until his hands find their way back to Will's hips to move him as he pleases, yanking him violently back and forth, once, twice in his frenzy to come as Hannibal doubles over, catching them both on one of his hands before they hit the sheets and comes inside Will with a long groan. They stay there like a pair of dogs, panting, Hannibal's hips still rocking in a slow rhythm, trying to prolong his climax for as long as possible. If it wasn't for the other man holding him up, Will would not have the strength to stay there, his eyelashes fluttering, a drop of sweat rolling down his temple. He finds Hannibal's hand and laces their fingers - the doctor squeezes them, causing Will's heart to warm up like a match had just been lit. It's so worth it, the pain is nothing compared to this, and Hannibal lowers him down gently like the most delicate flower, careful not to hurt Will any more as he pulls out.

"The dinner is ruined because of you," Hannibal smiles against Will's cheek as he lies down next to him, pulling Will who is already half unconscious to his chest, "A lot of effort went into chasing him down, such a shame."

"Can't we just order pizza," Will groans sleepily, not paying any attention to what Hannibal is saying, fingers drawing soothing circles into Hannibal's chest hair, "I'm not a big fan of Japanese food."

Hannibal presses his nose into Will's head of dark curls and inhales his scent - by now Will has already started to get used to it. "I'll make you a pizza from scratch," Hannibal agrees, his voice a low murmur, "But only if you promise to eat it no matter what the ingredients are."

 

They fuck again after a few hours of sleep. Hannibal takes him on his back, one of Will's legs up on his shoulder and then once more in the morning with Will on top, straddling him as Hannibal helps him move with firm hands gripping his hips. It's better this way - he's still sore from last night but like this Will has the upper hand, he can decide how fast they go and he takes his time, toying with Hannibal's cock and feeling the weight of it in his palm, running a fingertip down a thick vein on the underside of his erection before guiding it inside himself. There are two things Will knows Hannibal enjoys thoroughly - one being smelling him and the other choking him during sex - and he takes Hannibal's hand to place it over his throat as he moves up and down on his cock, slowly getting used to having it inside him. Eyes never leaving one another, Will plants his hands firmly over Hannibal's chest, clutches the soft hair there and watches his every reaction, every bit of emotion that flashes across his eyes, as Will rides his cock until he, too, climaxes even regardless of the discomfort he's in. He's going to get used to this, he has to.

It's way past noon on a Saturday when they finish. Hannibal makes him eggs and sausage for breakfast - they don't bother going into the dining room, they just sit by the counter and drink a whole pot of tea Hannibal prepares with such diligence it's like he's about to serve it to the queen of England. He stares at Will as he eats with intense eyes, unshaven, hair still a mess from last night and it's unbelievably good to see him like this, dressed in a red sweater and pajama pants, a small reminder that he's human underneath the appearance of sheer perfection. Will doesn't know what it all means, he doesn't know if this thing between them is going to last but for now he's going to enjoy it - and enjoy it he definitely has, for the thought of so profoundly losing his virginity last night is like soap bubbles forming somewhere deep inside him and swimming up to the surface where they pop, tickling his insides with the knowledge of what was done last night. What _he_ did last night, and with whom.

The kiss they share on the doorstep lasts for several minutes. Unwilling to let go of the taller man, Will clutches at his chest as Hannibal cups his face lovingly, placing a couple more kisses to his swollen, angry red mouth.

"I had a good time," Will feels the need to share with the doctor, enjoying the way Hannibal's hands smooth over the shoulders of his winter coat, like brushing away invisible specks of dust. "I always do, with you."

"It's nice when someone sees us for who we are," Hannibal agrees - one more kiss - and he opens the door to let Will outside. His cellphone buzzes in his pocket, Will's dad must be mad as hell for him staying out all night, but he can find no interest to pick up the phone, not when he's still in the company of the older man.

"See you later, Hannibal."

"See you later, Will," he says with a smile, watching as Will skips down the steps and heads out to the cold to catch the next bus that'll take him home.

 

Will arrives late in the afternoon and his dad is there to greet him at the door, red in the face with fury. He grabs Will's shoulder and pulls him inside, and Will has the courtesy to look ashamed when his father lets him have it, lecturing him about never doing that again. He didn't mean to, not on purpose, but his cellphone had been long forgotten in the pocket of his jacket by the door as Will had been very much distracted with other things. Really, it had been the last thing on his mind.

"You could have picked up the phone!" he yells at Will's face, gesturing in the direction of the television, "I thought you had been murdered not answering all night, where were you?"

"I was with-" Will starts but gets distracted by the news report on the TV, blasting at full volume over their argument. "There's been another Ripper murder?"

"Apparently it happened two nights ago - this dentist was found in his office this morning with his lungs missing, disemboweled-"

"Lungs missing?" Will turns to look at his father, then the TV. They are showing crime scene photos now, nothing explicit but it's clearly the work of the Ripper. The coldest, most vile sensation creeps up his throat, bile rising in his stomach and he covers his mouth with a numb hand, vision swaying, he can't feel his face nor his legs but somehow he manages to stumble into the bathroom before he vomits into the toilet, shaking all over.

_No, no, no, no,_ Will repeats in his head, not willing to believe it but already knowing it to be true. How could he have been so stupid? How could he have been so blind, so love-struck he failed to see what had been right in front of his eyes - what had been _put_ right in front of his eyes on purpose - no, he's not smart for figuring this out, it's all been his plan all along, Hannibal hasn't even bothered to try and hide it - Will has nothing to do with figuring this out, Hannibal _wanted_ him to see. _It's nice when someone sees us for who we are._ Will vomits again as he remembers past meals shared with the doctor - the meal he had right this morning - and it feels like his entrails are turning inside out in disgust, so powerful he nearly faints, the smoke that so often surrounds him swirling around his trembling form. The smell of this man's sweat is still glued to his own skin, the scent of their coupling, his come still inside Will's body - and he feels the Wendigo's touch on his shoulder, cold, pressing, and he knows every single thing that's come out of Hannibal Lecter's mouth has been a lie - that he's truly the intelligent psychopath the world has been looking for more than a decade, than Will is nothing more than a fly on his windshield, something to entertain himself with for a while.

He leans his back against the cool bathroom tiles, hides his face in his hands and fails to hear his father's worried voice and the knocking to the door. Hot, burning tears seep between his fingers and Will cries with all his heart - he did this to himself, he let this man into his life, he was the one to make the first move, he was the one to fall in love. Hannibal had been merely curious to see what Will would do, how far this would go, how far Will would let him. He never considered Will a threat which is why he let him see, maybe he thought Will would enjoy it too and then another horrible thought comes to his mind - possibly Hannibal had thought Will already knew, it really had took him way longer than it should have to put two and two together, perhaps he had thought Will wouldn't care about him being a killer. Last night he hadn't even been making it obvious, he'd simply been comfortably speaking about eating human flesh, and late at night, admitting to killing someone which Will had then ignored completely but now, can't stop thinking about. Had Hannibal thought Will had willingly slept with a serial killer?

His tears feel like they're burning holes into the palms of his hands and he's so afraid, hugging his knees to his chest feeling young and pathetic and inexcusably stupid. As his entire world comes crashing down Will can't help but question everything he remembers Hannibal ever telling him, of encouraging him to follow his urges - he's never seen Will as nothing more than a lamb, never an equal, just someone who'd end up at his dinner table later on, every piece of his body eventually cooked and served in some sort of form in his extravagant culinary art. _I want to eat you,_ Will remembers him saying and wails, his father banging on the bathroom door for Will to let him in.

 

Will thinks about the first time Hannibal had touched him. He thinks about their first kiss, the first moment Hannibal admitted his attraction to him, the time when Hannibal carried him up the stairs to the bedroom. The night they made love several times. The last kisses they shared on the doorstep. It feels like a lifetime ago now that Will knows, now that he's gone through the pages of his scrapbook and connected Hannibal with each and every murder, the relation now so obvious Will feels like digging out his own eyes and feeding them to the seagulls that fly over the grocery store parking lot behind the school - it's not like he needs them for anything, he's been completely blind before and hasn't had any complaints until now.

It's late on Sunday evening when Will sneaks out of their apartment, he needs some fresh air, his head has started to hurt from thinking so hard and he wanders around aimlessly, making his way towards the school he knows to be closed. The idea of going to class the next morning is simply absurd, only meant for normal people - people who don't let serial killers fuck them - which makes him think of the meeting he's got scheduled for Thursday evening with the doctor, the mere thought of ever laying eyes upon Hannibal's handsome face sickening enough to make him feel like vomiting his guts out. Will slips into the backyard of the school through the unlocked gate, walks around the soccer field and kicks around an empty water bottle just to have something to do. The entire building is dark, oddly ominous and then there are hoof-beats Will hasn't heard in a while. The raven stag stands there, right behind him with it's head of great antlers, looking down at him as if in pity, going _poor Will, poor stupid Will._

He can't deal with this now, not after crying the entire day, and he heads on over to the hole in the fence and clambers through, the bright lights of the supermarket blinding him momentarily. A group of guys is standing behind a pick up truck, smoking cigarettes but Will doesn't pay them any attention as he passes them, his breathing erratic, on the verge of a panic attack. He hears voices, someone calling his name, but isn't sure if it's in his head or if the sounds are really there, he can't see, he doesn't know who he is.

"Graham," he hears someone call, footsteps, and a familiar face swims into view - one of Preston Spencer, together with a bunch of his friends and they've got him cornered and Will is a feverish mess. He no longer knows how to protect himself, he's forgotten how to open his mouth and doesn't reply when the guys address him, doesn't understand the words that their mouths speak. He barely feels it when Preston punches him, sending him crashing to the ground, cheek hitting the asphalt, doubling over as they start to kick him. He tries hiding his face in his hands but his palms are pried away, held down as someone hits him, his mouth is full of blood and he splutters to avoid choking, tears streaming down his cheeks. His ears ring with another blow to his head, another, then a weight on his arm, the horrifying sound of a bone cracking in two and he screams, screams as loud as he can, screams like a maniac and the boys scatter and leave him there, lying on the snowy ground.

Will looks up at the night sky, the warmth of his breath making small clouds in the freezing air, listening to the approaching hoof-beats. The stag's shadow falls over him as it watches him bleed on the ground with a broken arm, noses Will's cheek with the cool tip of it's beak with something a kin to tenderness and Will swallows thickly, wanting to reach out and touch the creature that has never been evil. He closes his eyes for a moment, the pain in his arm so mind numbing that he's unable to get up and when he reopens them, the Wendigo is there as well sitting on his other side, guarding him as he slowly drifts into unconsciousness.

 

The first thing Will registers is the scent of disinfectant and the clinical sound of beeping and whirring of hospital equipment. He knows where he is instantly, and in a rare moment of clarity, opens his eyes and closes them from the pain - his head throbs and his arm feels stiff in the cast it's been put in. Will groans, turning his head to the side and a nurse's unfamiliar but friendly face comes into view, her mouth moving with the words she speaks but it's difficult to understand when the weight of the world comes crashing down on him, reminding him of how quickly everything has gotten out of hand, out of the frying pan and right into the fire. A broken arm is nothing compared to the inner turmoil in his head - his mind feels like it's on fire.

"Are you in pain?" she asks him kindly and as Will doesn't answer, injects something into the drip bag on Will's arm. His vision sways for a moment and he whimpers again, now blissfully numb with the morphine coursing through his veins - as the nurse shifts aside his eyes focus on a window, blinds pulled up and showing two men in a heated conversation in the hallway outside his room. His dad and Hannibal Lecter.

"No, no, no," Will croaks, the dread that creeps into him more real than anything and he tries to get up but can't - the nurse rushes back to him and forces him down, telling him to calm himself but Will doesn't listen. The ruckus that follows attracts the attention of the two men and as they enter the room - Hannibal in the front - he feels hot tears streaming down his cheeks, trembling in sheer terror. He can't tell Hannibal to go away, he can't do nothing about it in front of his father - what if Hannibal wants to hurt him, or Will, he can't act like something's different. He can't know Will has figured out who he is.

"Who did this to you, Will?" Hannibal demands, taking a seat from Will's bedside as his father clutches his unharmed hand, looking like a thunderstorm is about to break out. His dad wipes away his tears but Will only sees the doctor - he blinks, mouth parting and closing, unable to form any words as he's so damn afraid. A flicker of something passes through the golden brown of Hannibal Lecter's eyes, a wave of understanding, but as his gaze returns to normal, Will knows that the damage is done. There's simply no way to hide anything from this man, never was, not since the beginning, and as Will's eyes start to tear up again, Hannibal nods at him slowly.

"Was it him?"

Will lowers his head in a nod, turning his eyes away and swallowing thickly. Why isn't Hannibal wiping his tears away, why is he sitting so far like they don't even know each other? His fingertips and toes feel ticklish from the painkiller, his mind high, breathing evening out slowly, trying to lull him back into deep slumber but Will doesn't want to go - not yet. He feels good now with the drug coursing through his system and there's just so much to say, so much he wants to ask Hannibal and it can't wait, Will can't wait.

"We're going to press charges," Will's dad says gravely, "Don't you worry, son, everything's going to be alright."

"Why didn't you tell me?" Will turns to look at Hannibal and slurs, his tongue thick in his mouth and completely ignores his father.

"I'm not sure I know what you mean," the side of Hannibal's lip quirks ever so slightly - he's amused, and he and Will's father share understanding glances as Will sinks further into the pillows, further into the drug induced high. It annoys him, they're making him feel like a kid and he understands that these men must be of similar age - his dad might even be younger - but they are different like day and night, Hannibal in his impeccable suit, hair combed back, face stoic and handsome where as his father's dressed in old flannel, bags under his eyes, skinny and thin shouldered.

"Why don't you... You can..." Will starts, sounding like he's completely wasted as he grins at the doctor, eyes glued to his beautifully formed lips, "Kiss?"

"Sleep now, Will," Hannibal's large palm covers his forehead, smoothing his hair and Will closes his eyes, unaware of the light-hearted chuckles Hannibal shares with his father. He drifts into fathomless sleep, wading into the quiet of the stream, his dreams uneventful and serene.

 

Will doesn't know how long he's slept the next time he wakes up. It's clearly late in the afternoon, the sun high in the sky and casting the hospital room into bright light, flicks of dust floating through the air. It doesn't hurt that much any longer - he must have slept through the worst part - as the main thing he feels at the moment is hunger instead of pain. It must have been days since the last time he managed to keep something in his stomach without vomiting it out from the memory of Hannibal's cooking he's consumed. He groans, rolling over to face the other way and finds Abigail sitting there with her math homework on her lap, scribbling something down on the paper before lifting her eyes. She beams at Will, putting away her book and leans closer, as delighted to see him as Will is to have her there.

"You're awake," she says, pulling her chair up to get closer to Will's bed, "Battered but awake."

"I feel like ground beef," Will groans, grinning at his friend, "What day is it?"

"Tuesday," she says, showing Will the date and time on her phone before placing it on the nightstand, "Your dad says you've practically been asleep since they brought you in."

"They gave me something," Will turns his gaze to the roof and tries to remember. "My dad was here, and so was Dr. Lecter. I don't remember what I said."

"I don't doubt it - they told me you've got a concussion, a broken arm and a fractured rib," Abigail's smile seems a bit forced now - like she's hiding something - and Will shifts in bed to get a closer look at her. She's putting on some kind of show, only displaying emotion she thinks Will is going to want to see - is it pity or compassion for Will's condition?

"Do they know who did this to me? Do the cops know it was Preston Spencer?" Will pushes himself up into a sitting position, wincing as pain travels down his spine from the bruise on his side. "He's going to be put away - sent to juvie or something-"

"Will," Abigail interrupts, looking apprehensive, "I'm not sure I'm allowed to tell you this but I... I have to, I can't hide this from you-"

"What's happened?"

"There was another Ripper attack," she starts, eyeing Will's expression with slight worry, "At our school."

"Our school?" Will repeats, eyebrows disappearing into the dark curls on his forehead.

"Preston Spencer is dead," Abigail tells him with a quiet, fearful voice, "They found him in the main foyer, he was... He was in pieces."

"What did he take?" Will demands, staring at the girl intently, now completely unaware of the pain in his pummeled body.

"Huh?"

"Abigail, what did he take?"

"It was kind of hard to tell with... With everything that had been done to him, he'd been torn to shreds," she tells him, now more concerned about Will's strange reaction, "But I think he took Preston's heart. That's what the papers say - shall I call the doctor?"

"No!" Will wails a little too loudly, realizes his mistake and lies back down on the bed covers, "No, I'm fine. I just... It's just quite the coincidence."

"More like divine intervention," Abigail nods grimly, picking up her homework, "Or maybe the Ripper is secretly looking out for you."

"Yeah, without a doubt," the airiness in Will's voice wouldn't be enough to fool Hannibal Lecter but Abigail does laugh a little, giving Will one more _I've had it with you_ glare.

 

It's seven thirty PM on a Thursday as the door to Hannibal Lecter's office opens, the man emerging dressed in a dark, wine colored suit, a grey tie, black Oxford shoes.

"Ah, Will," Hannibal says, pleased to find the young man standing there, the curls of his hair combed back, wearing a moss green dress shirt even though his arm is still in cast, a sling holding it up against his chest. "Right on time."

Without a word, Will walks past him to enter the room and heads on over to the pair of leather chairs, sits down and watches, eyes never leaving the taller man's form as he takes the opposite seat, crossing his legs and placing his large hands over his lap, lacing his fingers. His face is bland, devoid of any expression as he returns Will's gaze, waiting for him to say something but as neither of them does, they sit in silence for a long while. The fire in the hearth crackles pleasantly, casting long shadows on the walls, the wooden floorboards and Hannibal's face, the gold of his eyes as intense as ever. Shifting uncomfortably, Will presses his fingertips into the armrests, trying not to remember what it felt like to touch him - how easy it would be to reach over and crawl into the man's lap, how easily their mouths could come together in unison.

"Why did you kill him?" Will's voice comes out stronger than he expected, it doesn't tremble and it's clear in the stillness of the room.

"Could you explain the meaning behind your words?" Hannibal lifts one thin eyebrow, relaxing in his seat.

"Cut the bullshit," Will spits back, scowling at the older man, "It doesn't make sense - you've never had a motive before, you've never-"

"This murder could be traced back to me, it's quite unfortunate," Hannibal interrupts him indifferently, looking past Will as if there's something behind him as he speaks, "The compassion I have for you is extremely inconvenient. I haven't experienced such sympathy towards anyone before - at least not in a long while."

"Sympathy? Do you even know what that means?" Will hisses, eyebrows furrowed in anger, "Did you have any sympathy for Preston Spencer when you mutilated him?"

"No," Hannibal replies honestly, tilting his head and smirking at the other's hostility. "You're well aware of the fact that Preston Spencer was a pest - poor social discipline, simply no class, no manners. No grace, nothing like you are, Will."

"Even if I did agree I would... You never..." Will's voice breaks and he takes a pause to gather his thoughts. "You never considered me an equal, not really, I was nothing more than a lamb you were preparing for slaughter."

Hannibal seems to be mildly surprised to hear that. "What makes you say that? Do you think I would have let you see me, know me, like I did, had I not considered you my equal?"

"I... I don't know," Will mutters, losing confidence in the middle of the sentence, "You're a serial killer, Dr. Lecter."

"Are we not on a first name basis any longer?" Hannibal's smirk is extremely irritating but also makes him look even more attractive. "I thought you were my friend."

"You're not my friend," Will insists but he's losing it - slowly but surely - he's running out of arguments and the things that seemed to weigh more, stacked upon the other end of the scale are slowly diminishing, dipping the balance and screwing with everything Will knows. It's true - he's never been more himself than he is with this man, this killer, a cannibal - never more comfortable in his own skin, never more at ease with the visions that torment him. In a way Hannibal has skinned him and turned him inside out, molded him like clay into a shape that pleases him, given him a taste of pleasure that most people would never dare to even imagine. All the while Will has never had any complaints, trusting in Hannibal's guiding hand. What could he become together with this man?

"Even the light of friendship won't reach us for a thousand years."

"Yet you didn't go to the police."

Will looks up, slightly alarmed as he realizes he hadn't thought of that - it hadn't even crossed his mind - and what does that say about Will? Not once during his panicked frenzy after finding out the truth had he considered talking to the police - it should have been an obvious choice - but he had only been focused on himself, his own hurt, his own feelings of betrayal.

"Why did you lie?"

"I have never lied to you, Will, not even once," Hannibal's voice is serious now, the look in his eyes more tender, understanding. As Will doesn't reply he reaches over, placing a soothing hand over his knee, looking up at Will with a genuine smile. "You helped me chop a man's small intestine."

"I didn't know what it was at the time," Will's breath gets caught up in his throat as he watches the hand on his knee like a bomb he's supposed to know how to dismantle.

"And you are certain?" Hannibal's fingers trace patterns into the fabric of his jeans, "I served you human and you told me it was delicious."

"I didn't know," Will croaks, voice constricted, his stomach a boiling pool of hot lava, "I swear... I..."

"Would you swear it did not excite you sexually as I watched you eat it?" Hannibal's voice is a low murmur and he's closer, so close that Will's eyelashes flutter, "Would you say the thought of killing someone together with me would not arouse you?"

Hannibal's grin widens as Will lets out an audible gasp, unable to tear his eyes away from the other man like he's being hypnotized. Nose nuzzling Will's cheek, Hannibal breathes in his scent, inhaling and exhaling, as Will stays perfectly still, desperately trying to suffocate the lust that awakens in him - but he remembers, he remembers the sense of power that coursed through his veins as he attacked Preston Spencer, remembers how he wanted to go further, how he wanted to end it. Another shuddering breath leaves his lips and he pushes his cheek against Hannibal's, lips brushing against the man's ear. This man doesn't want to hurt him, he wants Will to be _like_ him.

_"Hannibal."_ Will's voice is merely a whisper.

He remembers the coppery, intoxicating scent of blood, the taste of it on his tongue and in a way it's like sex, an uninhabited territory he has yet to fully explore and he wants to, so badly, he wants Hannibal to show him everything. As the man cups his face Will leans into his touch, eyes half-lidded, gaze unfocused and waits for whatever Dr. Lecter has to say.

"Would you care to join me in the kitchen?"

They get up, Will following Hannibal like a pet dog that knows he's going to receive a treat if he obeys, if he behaves properly - and he takes a seat from the counter, the bar stool where he always sits when Hannibal cooks, eyes following his every move as Hannibal wraps an apron around his waist.

"What's for dinner?" Will asks blankly, his expression flavorless, completely indifferent as Hannibal takes Preston Spencer's heart from the fridge and lays it over the cutting board, picks up a knife and slices into the meat - their eyes meet, Hannibal's golden brown to Will's blueish sea foam.

"Pizza," Hannibal simply answers with quirk of his lips - they both smile, all barriers broken down between them. " _My cunning boy._ Are you not going to pick up a knife and help me?"

[](https://ibb.co/jik4ga)


End file.
